So much to say, so little word count. I’ll get right to the bottom of things. My husband had his first colonoscopy the other day, and all I kept thinking as I sat in the anxiety-filled waiting room (chuck full of mostly AARP’ers) was They’re like lambs being lead to the slaughter, but in a funny, less morbid, kind of way.
See, Doo has a strong family history of colon cancer and a brother who is a gastro-intestinal physician. Both of these resulted in his being scheduled for a screening far earlier than the recommended 50 years of age. So we got our insurance in line, made the appointment, and looked forward to the pre-op insanity. At least I was looking forward to it. Watching Doo chug four laxative cocktails and waste an evening on the john was the perfect antidote to my still-lingering bitterness over the dog acquisition. Even better, he couldn’t eat anything but fat-free chicken broth and non-red popsicles from 5 b.m. – I mean p.m.! – onward.
And because he was to be heavily sedated, I had to tag along to receive the good/bad news and to drive him home. As compensation, I was allowed to bear witness to this truly unique post-op recovery ward atmosphere. I say “ward” because Doo was literally brought back to a large “holding facility” with eight beds cordoned off only by curtains. I heard everything on either side of us and across the way. Doctors’ comments, nurses’ instructions, patients’ questions.
Most noteworthy, I was entitled to the distinkt pleasure (?) of hearing complete strangers pass gas – both disgusting and hilarious at the same time. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, a colonoscopy victim must expel the air that was used to make room for the scope before they are discharged. Patients are instructed to toot as forcefully and as often as then can, earning the coveted Brown Star when they exceed expectations. So while I’m trying to act mature and calm and understand what the physician is saying, I’ve got a scantily-clad Doo mumbling incoherently about Qdoba while earning his star in record time and a cacophony of various-toned farts reverberating around me. Is it any wonder I couldn’t stop giggling? That’s potty humor at its best, people.
Luckily Doo was fine, though the doc did remove some polyps that might otherwise have become cancerous down the road. I, on the other hand, may be permanently scarred. While Doo remembers nothing until his chicken ranchero “reward,” I will forever hold vivid images of the packed waiting room of geriatrics whom I later heard star in a surprisingly-accurate scene from Blazing Saddles. Peace out.